


a spring pinched between two fingers and with no place to go

by thewintercynic



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Mild Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-31
Updated: 2012-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-30 09:56:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewintercynic/pseuds/thewintercynic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames wants to see what's inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a spring pinched between two fingers and with no place to go

**Author's Note:**

> [Written for this prompt](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/17669.html?thread=36496389#t36496389)
> 
> on the Inception Kink Meme. While in his dream, Eames finds Robert in [a vacuum bed](http://latexwiki.com/index.php?title=Vacuum_Bed). Anon's choice how Eames responds, just as long as it is symbolic to Robert being restrained/released.

_Well._

I should have expected it, but not _this_. My years have brought me up close and personal with so many things that you could only imagine; the dark and twisted secrets of society’s finest, the dirty little wants of a country’s servant. I’ve seen blood and death and torture in all the ways that you couldn’t—excuse the pun— _dream_ of. To know that you’re a man who values control over others and, of course, over yourself, is not rocket science. But to peel back the layers of your mind and to find something interesting makes every foray into someone’s headspace just a little bit more worth it.

I know that you keep yourself in absolute tip-top shape. You’re probably one of the lucky few who drink moderately, smoke occasionally and will most definitely live to the ripe old age of eighty. I also know that you review every single document that ever graces your office desk, several times in fact, before ever signing it. You are a piece of work, Robert, and any father should be proud of you. You’re a machine, well oiled, and performing at maximum efficiency. And just like inside every machine, there is a series of accurately placed springs, nuts, bolts and cogs. There’s circuitry as well, all sorts of little chips and pieces that make something _work_ so well.

Finding you in a sound proof room, under an intense spotlight in an otherwise pitch black room, was a challenge. I had to search high and low through the city of your dreaming, ducking into all sorts of dark and decadent nightclubs simply pulsing with music and bleeding of alcohol. I walked through the crowds of businessmen screaming into their Blackberries and iPhones, or a few who talked loudly into their blue tooth headsets. Your mind is a mess, Robert; it’s chaotic and noisy and insane. But where you’re hiding, a hundred feet under the ground and accessible only through the most complicated of mazes, it would have been dead silent if not for your breathing.

It’s very soft, your breathing. You’d have to strain to hear it. Every take of breath makes a very quiet creaking sound. The latex practically sings with the light and unashamedly outlines your body, flattering your arms, those powerful legs, your prick and balls. The latex shapes your lips, the deep hollows of your eyes, your striking cheekbones. Only a very small portion of your nose is exposed, allowing your nostrils to give you air.

There isn’t the slightest room for you to move. Personally, I find it a miracle that you still have room to breathe. You’re tightly coiled, Robert, a spring pinched between two fingers and with no place to go. A prisoner in your own mind.

You don’t seem to hear me close the door. Your breathing doesn’t falter, just like the ticking of my wristwatch. Every two seconds, you inhale and exhale. It makes the rise and fall of your chest almost hypnotic. The floor is bare, concrete, and every step I take rings loud and clear in this empty room.

_Tick-breathe in-tock-breath out._

The latex isn’t particularly smooth and my finger tips skim and catch on the material. I leave greasy marks that mar the shine of the light. My hand paints a path from the instep of your right foot, up the fine length of your leg. Your breathing doesn’t miss a beat.

_Tick-breathe in-tock-breath out._

When I reach your hip, I let my hand stray a little just to give your balls a good squeeze. With no room to move for you, I have no room to really grip. The latex is thick and unyielding in my hand and hardly gives. That’s fine; it makes your breath hitch just a tiny bit, makes it sharper. If you’re repulsed or if you’re appreciative, the latex won’t give any of it away.

My hand doesn’t leave that swell of your prick and balls as I lean over. Your breath is hot on my chin and hot on my cheek. Hot on my tongue when I give the skin between your nostrils a lick. It’s the only part of your body that hasn’t been dulled by latex. The reaction is nearly instant: from your mouth comes a garbled sound. Trapped between pressed lips and latex, there’s no telling what it could have meant.

You’re breathing jaggedly, all rhythm gone and I take that moment to close my eyes and soak up the sound. The whole room breathes with you, and the floor is alive with your pulse racing. I lick my lips and smile as it slows down, carefully, easing back to your tightly measured pattern.

_Tick-breathe in-tock-breath out._


End file.
